


That's Not My Name

by Magnetism_bind



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Coffeeshop AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-22
Updated: 2015-05-22
Packaged: 2018-03-31 18:43:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3988681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magnetism_bind/pseuds/Magnetism_bind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The barista keeps spelling his name wrong and Tommy Shelby is fucking tired of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That's Not My Name

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a tumblr AU prompt. 
> 
> 'Tommy/Alfie - I’m a busy businessperson and my barista keeps misspelling my name in increasingly disrespectful ways, honestly, who does this person think they are AU'

"Oi." The bearded barista wiped his mouth on his sleeve and eyed Tommy, "Something wrong with your drink, mate?"

Tommy gave the illegible scrawl across his coffee cup another examination before shaking his head, "Not a thing.”

"Alright then." The barista went back to ignoring him. Tommy left. It really didn’t matter that the guy had spelled his name _Tomi._

It wasn’t like he _had_ to get coffee there again. There were plenty of other coffee shops around. But this one was so convenient. That was the trouble.

He left without another look at the barista. Maybe tomorrow he’d just go to Starbucks. They could spell at Starbucks.

 *  *  *

But come the next morning he found himself running late and desperately in need of caffeine before his 10 o’clock meeting with Sabini Inc. and the coffee shop was _right there_. It wasn’t like the guy got his order wrong. It was petty to boycott a place of business simply because one employee spelled his name wrong when taking his order.

But Tooomi? _Tooomi?_ The fuck was that. Over the years Tommy had gone by Tommy, Thomas, Tom. It was a common name, a family name, such a fucking easy name to spell. _That’s_ what bothered him. If the barista was making mistakes at that level what else was he doing wrong? It grated at Tommy. If the man worked for him, he’d definitely have a word.

 *  *  *

Over the weekend Tommy brewed coffee at home while going over the past weekly reports. He didn’t think about the stupidity of certain baristas not even once.

 *  *  *

On Monday though …

“What can I get you?” the barista asked when Tommy came up to the counter.

“Coffee. Black.” Simple order, simple name. This wasn’t a difficult process. Maybe last week had been a fluke. Anyone could have a bad week. Tommy was a reasonable man.

“Name?” The barista blithely inquired, reaching for the pot.

“Tommy.” He resisted the urge to spell it out for the man.

“Be ready in a sec.” The barista turned his back and started whistling.

Tommy tapped his fingers on his watch and reminded himself that he needed to call the Birmingham office to make sure they were getting the shipments in order. Polly needed it done by Friday and the last thing he wanted was for her to have deal with extra work when she was already busy managing the main office.

“Here go you go.” The barista handed him his coffee and moved on to the next customer.

Tommy glanced at his coffee, then at the barista.

“There are six m’s here.” Tommy remarked. “That is not even remotely right.”

The barista apparently didn’t care.

 *  *  *

He certainly looked like he knew how to write. His hands, well, Tommy didn’t really care to dwell on the man’s hands. He had good hands. They looked capable. This was bullshit.

 *  *  *

 _Tomosa._ He spent the day feeling like a cross between a pirate and a samosa.

*  *  *

The barista’s nametag said Alfie.

 ‘How would you feel,’ Tommy thought viciously as he glared at the man’s broad-shouldered back, ‘If I called you Alfredo!’ 

The barista would probably enjoy that.

 *  *  *

This time the T looked like something out of a horror film that a victim managed to scratch out in blood before dying. Tommy sighed and went on his way.

 *  *  *

 _Tomus._ It was like humus. If, perhaps, you were a cannibal.

 *  *  *

Another problem was that the barista was attractive in a scruffy, probably sleeps curled up with a lot of dogs clustered around him, sort of way. Probably had a smoky bed-sit somewhere with a cook stove and empty take-away containers and beer bottles littering the floor. Tommy drank his misspelled coffee and despaired of everything.

 *  *  *

On the morning where his name wasn’t so much a word but a string of vaguely connected swirls that were probably some sort of ritual designed to conjure the devil Tommy didn’t move away from the counter.

This was ridiculous.

He had a headache. He had a meeting in ten minutes. He wanted a coffee that looked like it was made by a responsible working adult and not a small child left unattended in the general vicinity of a coffee machine.

He looked at the barista who was bobbing his head in time to the disgustingly cheerful pop music playing from the corner speaker.

“You _can_ read, right?”

The barista looked up at him. “Say what?”

“I mean, you make all these orders, you work in an establishment that requires you to know how to spell, and yet….” Tommy trailed off at the look the man was giving him. Was that amusement? Did he think this was fucking funny?

“What seems to be the problem, sunshine?” Alfie-the-so-called barista folded his tattooed arms on the counter and leaned in, giving Tommy his undivided attention.

This was a little more than Tommy had bargained for. Alfie’s eyes, for example, when they really looked at you, made you think of white sandy beaches, and tall palm trees, fronds waving lazily in the breeze. Tommy could practically feel the ocean, warmed by the sun, lapping lazily at his toes.

He swallowed, his throat a little dry for some reason, before speaking. “You spell my name wrong. Every single time. And I would just like to know-”

“Took you long enough to notice.”  Alfie grinned at him.

Tommy blinked. He knew it. It was on purpose this entire time. He’d _fucking_ known it.

Alfie slung his towel over his shoulder and leaned in further. “I get off at seven, alright?”

“What?”

“There’s a pub up the road, nice and quiet. Fancy enough for you, I think.” There went the grin again and Tommy momentarily lost track of what the man was saying, “Lots of private corners and all.”

He waited, expectantly.

“Seven.” Tommy said at last. “Right.”

“See ya.” Alfie winked at him and nodded to the customer behind him. “What can I get you, mate?”

Tommy took his ( _Tommyi_ today) coffee and went out. He stood there for a moment on the pavement thinking over what had just happened. Then he continued on to the office.

 *  *  *

“You all right?” Arthur looked up at him as he walked into the office. “You look a little off.”

“Yeah,” Tommy shook his head. “It’s fine. It’s just…”

“Spill it out?” Arthur went back to looking at his computer. “We’ve got that meeting with Campbell in an hour.”

Tommy went to stand by the window. Below him he could see the Thames winding through the city. The blue sky morning framing the buildings across the water perfectly. “I think I have a date later.”

He wondered, briefly, if he would have time to go home and change his tie before deciding it didn't matter.


End file.
